Myrddin
by the.drizzling.rain
Summary: Born Prince Myrddin Emrys Ambrosius of Eleriwyn, firstborn to the late King Peter and Queen Brynhild, Merlin was so much more than the king's servant or court physician's apprentice. So when word comes to Camelot of Eleriwyn's defeat, he sets out to reclaim his throne. That is, if Arthur will let him. AU, no slash, BAMF!prince!Merlin
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: **I don't own "Merlin".

**Prologue **

The throne room was a deathly quiet. Red drapes hung over tall tinted glass panes, the heavy fabric tied off to the sides to allow the light in. Reds, blues, whites and greens painted the stone floors, interrupted every so often by the shadow of a guard stationed in front of a window. Myrddin's father, the good King Peter, sat atop his throne, a great steel chair lined with gold and silver and bronze. Rubies, diamonds and numerous other precious stones decorated its surface.

Prince Myrddin Emrys Ambrosius entered the room, the giant oak doors opening and closing with an ancient moan. The _clack_ing of the prince's heels as he approached was the only sound. It echoed loudly against the walls, giving the impression of vacancy.

Myrddin stationed himself barely a few feet from the throne. He bowed and said, "My lord."

"Myrddin," his father greeted, his hands clasped in front of him. With a wave of his hand the sentries filed out of the room.

"You called for me, father?" All royal formalities were dropped, gone with the plethora of guards.

The king sighed and massaged his temple. "I'm afraid I must send you from Eleriwyn."

"What?" Myrddin exclaimed, startled at the abruptness.

"The land is under attack—"

"Which is exactly why you need me here, father!" he shouted, taking a step toward the throne. "I will not run when my people need me most."

"Let me finish," Peter admonished. Myrddin muttered angry curses under his breath, but bowed his head slightly in apology, scowling.

"That is not the whole reason why you must leave," he replied. "It is only what I will be telling the rest of my council."

Confused, the prince opened his mouth to ask a question. Peter cut him off, saying, "My son, do you know why your middle name is Emrys?"

"No, father," Myrddin answered. Although at a loss as to what his middle name had to do with his need to leave in the middle of a war, he kept his silence. His father couldn't keep him in the dark for long.

"There is a prophecy of Emrys," he began after a long moment, almost as if he were second-guessing his decision. "It tells of a young man meant to become the greatest king in all of history."

Silence reined over the hall once more. "And... you think I am that man?" the prince assumed, bewildered. It seemed too... this wasn't real. How could it be? Eleriwyn was such a small kingdom—no king hailing from here could amount to as much. No, he wasn't this man. It didn't feel _right_. He could still feel the panic clawing at his throat and lungs despite; what if it was true?

Peter smiled gently, a flicker of amusement in his bright blue eyes. "No," he admitted, "you are not."

Prince Myrddin felt his knees go weak with relief. "Oh, thank the gods." He felt a little selfish at the twang of disappointment and jealousy in his gut at the realization. Why couldn't he be as great a king as this Emrys?

"What does this King Emrys have to do with me?" _And why did you name me after him? _

King Peter chuckled. "Oh, Emrys isn't a king. No, not yet." Smiling, he added: "He is you, Myrddin."

"Wh— _what_?" There was a prophecy about him after all. Then who was the king his father had mentioned? What of this Emrys? Of _him_? Where did he fit into all of this? He tried to say something else, but found he couldn't. His mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out.

"It is the legend of the Once and Future King and the man who will assist him in fulfilling his destiny as the greatest king in history." Peter smiled again, sadder this time. "Emrys, however, is the greatest sorcerer to roam the earth. He is the friend and protector of the Once and Future King, and he is the one to return magic to the land of Albion. You see, Myrddin," he said, his lips upturning into another despondent smile. "You must do these things, but you cannot do them in Eleriwyn."

Myrddin tried to say something. He really, truly did. But he couldn't. What way was there to respond to such a statement? He was surprised, but at the same time felt nothing. No, he felt something. It wasn't overwhelming, nor was it a thrill of fear. It wasn't pressure weighing down upon him or the inferior feeling most would have in the light of destiny. But it did feel... _right_.

He could feel power flowing through him, as much a part of him as the blood flowing through his veins. Turning to his father, he finally said, "What do I need to do?"

**I've been reading way too much Game of Thrones. Anyway, just needed a break from the other Merlin fic that I'm working on (the tenth chapter should be up soon, I've just started working on it!). School's been kind of dominating my life for the past couple of weeks, being the end of the first quarter and everything. I've had this terribly unoriginal idea stuck in my head for a while now, and since I've only found one prince!Merlin story that I liked on here, I decided to write my own! It's gonna be taking a backseat to my other one, though, at least for a bit. In an ideal world, however, I would be updating them both at the same time. I'll try and do that, but don't get your hopes up. **

**Review? Follow? Favorite? Maybe all three? Pretty please?**


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

Hunting. Myrddin couldn't say he disliked it, but when stationed as the one servant assigned to both the squires and the knights of Arthur's entourage, he couldn't say it was enjoyable.

His horse clopped lazily at the back of the group, a small gathering of barely seven men. Arthur, of course, rode at the front, two loyal knights (sirs Gwaine and Leon) flanking him protectively. Sir Elyan, the queen's brother, had settled for the middle and was accompanied by two young squires. One sat tall and strong atop a snow-white mare, reminiscent of the king himself. Blond hair hung in front of his slated blue eyes, a confident smirk lining his lips. The other was a complete opposite of his counterpart. Slumped, dismal and riding a spotted gelding, he brushed a stray strand of dark, greased hair out of his eyes. His mouth curved downward in an unhappy frown, giving his sallow face an even more drawn appearance. Myrddin couldn't recall being told their names, let alone ever speaking to them, but got the impression that neither were very nice people.

Silence reigned over them, something he couldn't help but find a little odd. Usually conversation during such voyages was a never ending string of words, hardly interrupted throughout an entire trip. Of course, those occasions rarely ended in the king killing something- something he liked to do a little too much in Myrddin's opinion—and that was likely the _only_ objective of the day. This was not a social outing, he supposed. He sighed. Never mind that Arthur wouldn't catch any damn deer—he was getting bored.

"Well, this is boring," Sir Gwaine spoke aloud (_Much too loud_, Myrddin thought), almost as if he had read his mind.

Arthur shot him a disgruntled glare. "_Gwaine_!" he hissed, careful to keep his voice low. "Shut up! I almost _had_ something there."

"That'll teach you to go around killing fluffy bunnies. What did they ever do to you?" Myrddin quipped, grinning.

"Oh, shut up, _Mer_lin!" He didn't bother keeping his voice down this time. The leaves around them shuffled and a flash of light brown caught their eyes. The deer Arthur had spotted.

"_Damn it_!" King Arthur's angry voice rebounded against the wood's moss-coated trees. That wasn't like him, Myrddin noted. Not at all.

Myrddin looked at Arthur. As in really _looked_. What he saw dismayed him.

The young king's clothes were wrinkled; he noticed similar wrinkles lining his dull blue eyes. The dark half-moons underneath accentuated his tired air, and the way he grasped the horse's reins and chewed his lip worried him. No wonder Arthur had wanted out.

"Princess?" Gwaine started, his brow raised in concern. "Are you feeling alright?"

Arthur closed his eyes tight, his forehead creased in frustration and anger. "Yes." he said haltingly, biting out his words. "Fine. Just- _stop_ calling me that."

"Alright, fine," the knight said, his lips tight. "_Sire_." He turned away, digging his heels into the side of his horse, urging it away. He galloped ahead of the rest, leaving them enveloped in a tense, awkward atmosphere.

"Come on," Arthur muttered. "Let's go." And instead of going in the same direction, he turned his horse around to face the rest, waving for them to do the same. They were headed home. His momentary anger had been replaced by a sort of fatigue, and a mask Myrddin realized he had seen much too often. He steered his mount to the side of their makeshift trail, waiting for Arthur to pass him by.

"What's wrong?"

Arthur raised his bowed head to look at him. After a long moment, he sighed. "I've just received word of a faraway kingdom is in need of our assistance." There was a pause. Myrddin waited for him to continue, and when he didn't, he said, "Well then the answer is simple: we help them."

"Yes, but don't you see? _We can't_." Arthur stressed, looking him straight in the eye. There was an urgency in his voice, an anxious tone that Myrddin really didn't like. It was infectious. He could already feel it tickling his own throat. He shook his head. "Why not?"

Arthur rolled his eyes. He could practically here the _Don't you get it?_ that was just waiting to be said. "Merlin, do you ever listen during the council meetings?"

Yes. "Not really, no."

He growled in frustration. "Of course you don't." Myrddin frowned at the tone. "Our military is depleted, we've no men to spare," he said simply, tersely. "I wish I could help—my father had good relations with them before the Purge. They're a smaller kingdom; our help would have done them good."

"Why did they need our help?" Dread weighed down on his stomach as a sort of magical forewarning. _Oh gods, no._ He had an awful feeling of where this was going. His hands tightened around the horse's reins.

"A king from overseas by the name of _Wulfric Dawnwalker._ He has taken their kingdom as his own. He hails from the east, from what I've been told." Anger and desperation raced through his veins side by side. That _man_ dared show his face in Albion, even after everything that had happened? He was even more foolish than Myrddin had thought.

"And what kingdom might this be?" Myrddin swallowed, his slick palms near bloody from the harsh leather reins. _Please please please please..._

"Eleriwyn. I don't expect you've have heard of it. It's very small and not very well-known."

He had been expecting this, but that didn't mean it didn't hurt. He let out a shaky breath. "And... and what of the king and queen? Are they well?" They had to be, they sent out a letter, didn't they?

"As well as you could expect, given the circumstances." Arthur laughed bitterly. An uneven laugh escaped his throat as well, breathy, quiet and short. His parents were _fine_! He grinned.

"They're dead, Merlin."

**Please review, otherwise I feel like I'm talking to myself. :) So tell me if you liked it, hated it, _whatever_. Is there something you want to see during the course of the story? I'm up for plenty of ideas, since my outline is pretty bland at the moment.**


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

_"They're dead, Merlin."_

The words rebounded in his skull over and over and over again. It didn't seem real.

He felt like letting the ground swallow him whole, like running away, doing anything that could get him as far from Arthur as he possibly could. Shock had frozen him, it seemed. There was no grief. No tears. _Nothing_.

No. He felt something. Anger. Burning, scorching, asking-for-blood _anger_. How could Arthur look at him and tell him he wouldn't help his people? How could he? Myrddin's face scrunched tight, his lips screwed to the side in a vain attempt to contain the emotion. He felt like yelling. Punching something, somebody, screaming to the Heavens of this injustice. How could the man he'd given up his life again and again to protect not even try to help his people when they were so badly in need of it?

Jumbled thoughts of anger and contempt ran thick and fast through his brain, so much so that he was barely aware of his surroundings any more. It was just him. Him and his anger.

Then, as quick as it had come, it left. Vanished. He felt... empty. Useless. Tired. Myrddin slumped forward on his horse.

_"They're dead, Merlin."_

He wondered if he would feel anything. It wasn't like they had spoken since he had left; he hadn't heard word of them for years, and his first letter from home turned out to be the worst kind. A death notice. Dead by the hand of his worst enemy.

Thinking it over with a strangely clear mind, he thought, _How do I know?_

And how _did_ he know? From Arthur? From a letter? A letter was easy to forge, easy to write, easy to send. How did he know it wasn't a lie? Some half-baked ruse, a trap devised by Wulfric to get him to go back?

Yes. That was it. There was no way his father could have been killed by the likes of _him_.

A part of Myrddin was aware of how foolish he sounded, how pathetically he was grasping at straws when there clearly wasn't even that. But... there was no way his mother and father were _dead_. It just... it wasn't feasible.

"How do you know?" he suddenly asked. Emotions rushed like waves, momentarily blinding him, choking him. Myrddin felt his eyes go wide, his grip on the reins tighter than ever. Hot blood ran down the inside of his fingers, dripping down and staining his worn brown trousers. "What did it say? What was the handwriting like? Who sent it? When did you receive it? Are you going to send someone to tell for sure?" He stopped, forced his lips closed and bit his tongue to keep from speaking.

The knights and squires were too far ahead to hear Myrddin's panicked inquiries, leaving only Arthur to slow his horse and shoot him a confused glance. Sir Leon shouted back, turning his mount around to gallop back to his king. Arthur waved him back, calling out a vague reassurance, urging them onward without him. Leon nodded, gesturing for the rest to follow him as he continued down the path toward Camelot.

Arthur shifted his attention to his servant, fixing him a stern, searching glare. "What the hell was that, Merlin?" he asked. "You've been acting... strange." He frowned in concern.

Myrddin's brow furrowed. He didn't have time for this. "Can you..." He shook his head and began again. "For once in your life, Arthur, can you please just listen and answer my question? Please." His almost cringed, hearing his voice crack on his last word.

By the look he was given, Myrddin guessed Arthur thought all his previous sanity had been thrown from the highest tower of the castle, never to return. After all, what did a servant such as himself have to concern himself with a war miles away? Nothing.

_Everything_.

"_Please_." He could feel his entire body shaking in anticipation. Arthur's next words could either shatter his resolve completely, or be his crutch until he could find out what was truly happening.

Arthur sighed tiredly. "Look, just take the damn thing. I've already made up my mind." He reached into his saddlebag and procured a small scroll. "We'll talk about this later, Merlin." Handing it to Myrddin, he galloped far ahead, suggesting he wanted nothing to do with him in his _less-than-sane_ state. Not that it mattered to him.

After accepting it with shaking hands, Myrddin stopped. Stopped moving, thinking, breathing. All that was there was him and the letter, the very letter that held the fate of his only family. He stayed like that for another moment, before taking in a deep gasp of air. He could do this.

He wiped his bloody, sweat-slicked hands across his pant leg, ignoring the harsh sting of the cuts. He unrolled it carefully, trying hard not to drop it.

_His Highness, King Arthur Pendragon of Camelot_, it read. The letters were thin and delicate and familiar. They were practiced, but had the look of someone fairly newly taught. He shivered as his dread returned. Tears tickled the skin beneath his eyes.

_I am writing you now in the hopes that you, the great King Arthur of Camelot, will assist myself and my kingdom of Eleriwyn in our dire time of need. Barely a fortnight ago a barbarian by the name of Wulfric Dawnwalker and his army attacked our citadel, seizing our land and killing the good King Peter and Queen Brynhild in their sleep._

_Our knights and soldiers have never amounted to many. Many were slaughtered during the seige. I no longer reside there, as I was escorted out in time by a knight by the name of Sir Carac Simmons. He watches over me now as I pen this letter in the Forest of Shadows, where we hide and await a response. We are joined by many other of my people who managed to escape._

_Help us, I beg of you._

_Signed,_

_Princess Alydia Ambrosius of Eleriwyn_

**"Forest of Shadows". *snorts* Yikes.**

**Well, I guess I don't need to worry about feeling like talking to myself, lol. :) But seriously, ideas would be great: I fully admit I don't know where this is going, so if you've got something you'd just love to see play out, leave it in a review (or PM me, it's all the same to me) and I'll see what I can do. ;)**


End file.
